More Deadly Than The Male
by ordinaryguy2
Summary: There's a new breed of monster in Los Angeles. One preying on human and Newcomer males, alike. And, Angel must work alongside the police to determine what kind of monster it is. A Angel/Buffy/Alien Nation/Species crossover by Carycomic
1. Chapter 1

**More Deadly Than The Male**

by Carycomic

An ANGEL/BTVS/ALIEN NATION/SPECIES crossover.

**Synopsis:** _There's a new breed of monster in Los Angeles. One preying on human and Newcomer males, alike. And, Angel must work alongside the police to determine what kind of monster it is._

**Foreword:** _In 1988, a feature film was released called ALIEN NATION that depicted the cultural differences between a human LAPD homicide detective named Matt Sykes (played by James Caan) and his extra-terrestrial partner, Samuel George Francisco (played by a pre-CRIMINAL MINDS Mandy Patinkin). Two years later, it spun off into a one-season wonder for the then-infant Fox Network. But, with Gary Graham and Eric Pierpoint taking on the Matt and George roles, respectively._

_ Another difference between the film and the series was the chronology. The former had been set in 1991 (three years after the arrival of the Newcomer slave ship). While the latter had been set in 1995-96 (English translation; five years after the ship's arrival). So, bearing this in mind, one wonders how both humans and Newcomers would have reacted to the city's more supernatural demographic being exposed as for real_

**UCLA MEDICAL CENTER**

**JUNE 14, 1996**

**(10:00 P.M./PST)**

Dr. Cathy Frankel, MD, looked on in horrified astonishment as the petite blonde Earth girl was injected with chlorpromazine before being bound with a straight jacket and dragged into a padded cell. The two police detectives standing beside her were more stone-faced. They had helped subdue the little spitfire before accompanying the ambulance over here! So they had had time to get over their own initial shock.

"Who is she?" the Tenctonese physician finally asked.

"Buffy Summers," replied Detective Matthew Sykes (LAPD Robbery/Homicide): "Hemory High School student. Age sixteen. According to the witnesses we interviewed at the scene, she was attending her senior prom when she suddenly went berserk! Accusing some party-crashing Goth street punks of being vampires and. . .!"

"Vampires?!"

"Yes, Doctor," replied Detective Sgt. Samuel George Francisco, Matt's Tenctonese partner. "A nocturnal creature from Earth mythology that is supposed to feed on human blood! They. . ."

"I'm well aware of the definition, George. I'm just amazed that some Earth people still believe in such things!"

"Well, evidently, she's one of them," countered Matt: "A hard core believer, I mean. Because she killed every single one of those party crashers with wooden stakes!"

"At which point," added George, ". . .she was tackled from behind by several of the burlier male students. Three of them, Newcomers! And, even then, they had difficulty holding her down until the first uniformed police arrived on the scene."

"Personally?" declared Matt, "I think somebody spiked her punch with PCP."

Cathy nodded: "That would explain the delusions and superhuman strength. But, I'll run a full tox-screen, to be sure. That should take about twenty-four hours; minimum!"

**THREE HOURS LATER**

Dr. Warren Michaels, head of the psychiatric ward at UCLA Medical Center, waited until the satellite link between London and his office pc was totally secure before activating the webcam.

"Well?" was the first word uttered by the face of Quentin Travers.

"She's a lost cause. From what I was able to gather, from her narco-hypnotic ramblings, one of the vampires was her boyfriend, nickname: Pike! And, having to stake him, along with the rest, drove her over the edge. It's too soon to euthanize her, though. The best I can do is cause to her have another psychopathic episode. . .by having one of my orderlies inject her I-V drip with PCP. This will not only confirm the police theory. It will also allow us to legally hold her, indefinitely! In the meantime, I heartily prescribe immediate activation of the contingency plan."

"Already been done," smiled Travers: "Good night, doctor,. . .and good work!"

Angel walked into the Little Tencton cafe' and smiled as he watched Clem selling two beaver burgers and a sour milkshake with two straws to a young Newcomer couple.

"Who's nex. . .Hey, Angel! Long time/no see."

"Same here, Clem. How's business?"

"Ain't it obvious? I'm still in the black!"

Angel leaned forward and whispered: "Well, it certainly doesn't hurt that you superficially resemble your customers."

The Kiasyd vampire could not help chuckling: "You got that right. Them coming to Earth six years ago was the best thing that ever happened to me!"

Angel changed the subject, informing Clem that he was expecting someone. "You can't miss him," he added: "He'll be a blond-haired guy with a crew cut. Twentyish-looking. And, probably wearing a trench coat, with tusk shell earrings, and a pork-pie hat."

"You mean him?"

Clem pointed to a table down near the hallway to the rest rooms. Sure enough; a young man matching Angel's description was already seated there. So, Angel nodded his gratitude, to Clem, and went to keep his appointment.

"How are you doing, Whistler?"

The so-called "_balance demon_" smiled.

"Yo, Angel! Pull up a chair and have a seat."

"Thanks. Don't mind if I do."

A moment later, they were conferring in whispers.

"So, why are we meeting in Slagtown?"

"Whoa-whoa-WHOA!" replied Whistler: "Let's not get racist there, Angel-baby. It takes all kinds to make a world. Even if they're people from a whole other world!"

"Nice way to dodge the question. But, I'm only going to repeat it. So, you might as well answer!"

"Fine! Scrap the small talk, it is. I called you here because there's been another shift in the balance."

Angel did not immediately reply. The last time Whistler had told him that was the night before the Day of Descent. Six years, earlier.

"Don't tell me the slave ship's original owners are showing up!"

"Nah! Nothin' that melodramatic. Comes close, though!"

"How so?"

"The new Slayer who was to join you in Sunnydale, next spring, won't be available. Due to the fact that she'll be occupying a padded suite at the Ha-Ha Hilton for about the next six years."

"What?!" exclaimed Angel in a slightly raised voice that temporarily attracted some attention: "But, what about. . .?"

"Shhhhhh!"

". . .the Harvest?" Angel finished somewhat more softly.

"Don't worry. The PTB's have a back-up plan."

**VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA  
MARCH 1, 1997  
(5:00 P.M./EST)  
**  
The portly, gray-haired bureaucrat walked up to the younger man just climbing up on to the dock. The latter was wearing a baseball cap, sans logo, blue jeans, a gray windbreaker, and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. In his right hand, he was carrying a fishing rod. While in his left, he carried a string of steelhead sea trout.

"Preston Lennox?" inquired the bureaucrat.

The fisherman immediately ceased smiling.

"Who wants to know?"

The bureaucrat flashed some credentials.

"Special Agent Jeffries; Defense Research Initiative. We have a job for you. . .in Sunnydale, California."

** To be continued(?) **


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2.  
**

**MARCH 9, 1997  
**  
The six hundred-year-old vampire gripped his blonde child's throat with his gnarled right hand.

"I'm your little lap dog. You bring me scraps!"

"Forgive me, Master!" exclaimed Darla: "We had another offering. But, she was stolen from us by a girl!"

"And, there was a girl!" added Luke (the Master's burly Enforcer): "She was very strong, and she knew of our kind. It's quite possible that she was. . ."

"A Slayer?" guessed the Master: "It's been a long time since I crossed paths with one of them. How certain are you that she was a Slayer?"

"I know only that she fought me and, yet, lives!"

"Very nearly proof, in itself," mused his sire: "I can't recall the last time that happened."

"Madrid; 1847," Luke (reluctantly) admitted: "I was. . .caught sleeping."

"Newsflash!" exclaimed a new (and decidedly female) voice: "History's about to repeat itself!"

A shower of silver-coated shurikens suddenly entered the ruins of the deconsecrated church. Three of them lodging themselves in Luke's chest. And one hitting Darla- -quite literally- -between the eyes!. But, the rest merely wound up embedding themselves in the stony back wall of the ruins. As the Master had ducked beneath their flight path with a speed and agility that contradicted his gaunt and withered appearance.

"Who dares. . .?" he began to hiss in anger.

"The name is Helsing," replied the ninja-like Newcomer: "Vanessa Helsing! ' Van,' for short. But, only to my friends."

* * * * *

**THE PENTAGON  
(ONE WEEK EARLIER)  
**  
"The project was code-named 'D.A.R.T. Directed Alien Response Team.' Several Newcomers were smuggled out of Quarantine and taken to a certain desert facility in Utah that you might be. . .vaguely . . .familiar with."

Lennox grimly smirked.

"As these particular aliens were bigger, stronger, and faster than us," continued Jeffries: ". . .due to their off-world genetic engineering, it was thought they might make ideal assassins for Uncle Sam."

" 'Ideal,' as in unstoppable and expendable?" Lennox semi-rhetorically asked.

Jeffires nodded: "But, most of them had to be sent back to Quarantine. Too much inherent morality. Even under the influence of that mind-controlling gas they call 'jabrokah!' Among the suitable exceptions, however, was a Newcomer female called 'Alison Wonderland' (code-name: Dart One). And the reason she and those others proved to have the right stuff. . .is because they had already been brainwashed by their own people! As part of a pre-Descent resistance group called the Udara."

"Well, fancy that!" replied Lennox (with some mild sarcasm): "So, where do I fit in?"

"You and a small squad of Force Recon marines- -officially on loan to Delta Force- -will be backing her up on the Sunnydale job. Make no mistake, Lennox. If you accept this mission, you'll be facing creatures that make Titch's Folly look like Mary Poppins, by comparison!"

Lennox arched his eyebrows: "Well, with a sales pitch like that, how can I possibly say 'no?' "

* * * * *

SUNNYDALE, CALIFORNIA  
(ONE WEEK LATER)

The quartet had been issued Steyr AUG's with infra-red scopes and built-on silencers. Moreover, each of their ammunition clips were a mixture of teflon-coated armor piercers (In case the vamps tried to augment their inherent immunity with bullet-proof vests) and bullet-shaped plexiglas capsules (containing micro-particles of ultra-violet irradiated selenium in a copper sulfate solution). Consequently, they had already disintegrated one vamp with a short, three-round burst, during the initial intervention on behalf of the redhead named Willow Rosenberg.

But, now, they were in the very lair of the head vamp, who had evidently "sounded" the psychic alarm. As his minions just kept on coming and coming. Fanatically sacrificing their own un-lives in an attempt to come to his aid!

"That dust pile's getting mighty high, sir!" First Sergeant Finn exclaimed: "And our ammo's getting proportionately low."

"Then, start using your flash/bang's," ordered Lennox: "We have to hold them back until Dart One has done her job."

Finn and the other recondos did as ordered. And, for about the first ten seconds, the aptly-named stun grenades appeared to have had the desired effect. But, then, Finn pointed toward the ceiling.

"Bogies; twelve o'clock! They're trying to pull a Spidey on us."

"Fire at will!" replied Lennox.

Meanwhile, Dart One (a.k.a. "Vaness Helsing") had already won half her battle. Or, more accurately, a third of it. One sweep of the silver battleaxe, in her right hand, had decapitated the blonde called Darla without any trouble, at all! The badly wounded Luke, however, had proven slightly more trouble. Grabbing her right wrist with his left hand, to halt the downward swing. While the under-handed blow she had tried to deliver with the silver battleaxe, in her left hand, was similarly intercepted by Luke's right.

"What. . .are you going to do. . . now,. . .little girl?" the Enforcer gloatingly challenged.

"This!"

Whereupon, Vanessa sprang upward, using her own axe handles to do a handstand! But, only for the first two seconds. She then allowed herself to fall, her legs opening upward in a V-shape. Though, only for a moment. Because, the next moment, she had brought them back together. Basically trapping Luke's neck in a flesh-and-blood vice! !

Vanessa then twisted to her left. Dragging the startled Enforcer to the floor, as a result. Which, in turn, landed him flat on his back, and broke his neck, at the same time. He would have regenerated, almost immediately, of course! But, only if she had let him. . ,which, of course, she did not.

One right-handed axe blow later, Luke was dust. Then, she turned to the Master.

"Now, it's _your_ turn."

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3.**

The Master picked up the shuriken that been imbedded in Darla's forehead prior to her near-instant decomposition. He sniffed it a couple of times. Then, he grinned.

"Sterling silver dipped in essence of garlic. An effective paralytic for the younger of my kind! But, as you saw for yourself, poor Luke was barely even half-slowed. And, you obviously missed me, completely."

"But, I definitely _won't_ miss you when you're gone," replied Dart One.

"Ah! The ' _feeble banter_ ' portion of the fight. So nice to see you honoring that tradition, as well, my dear. Shall we get started, then?"

The Newcomer and the vampire elder began circling each other.

**STORM DRAIN 227,**

**L. A. SEWER SYTEM**

**(JUNE 30, 1996)**

She had been born Rosita Cruz. And, up until ten years ago, she had worked as a prostitute for Esteban Reyes of East Los Angeles. But, when her cocaine habit had begun to cost more money than she earned, he kicked her out on to the street. Now, she was what used to be known as a "_bag lady_." Her day-by-day struggle to survive (which usually included pan-handling and petty theft) having already contributed to making her look twice her actual age!

She had been sleeping in an alley way. Using a blanket, two plungers, and the right end of a dumpster to improvise a lean-to. So drunkenly exhausted was she that she did not even sense the intrusion. . .until the pain of her ankle being bitten into finally registered in her subconscious.

Slowly, her eyes opened. And, when it finally dawned on her that something was dragging her along a wet, smelly surface, she somehow managed to sit up. Her blurred vision took an additional minute to clear up. When it did, her recognition of the facial features staring at her immediately caused to her scream at the top of her ravaged lungs!

The creature reacted accordingly. It silenced her, by biting off her head with its massive jaws! It had then returned to feeding on the rest of her right leg. When it was done, it cached both itself and what was left of Rosita's body inside a monstrously huge cocoon.

**SUNNYDALE, CALIFORNIA**

**(MARCH 9, 1997)**

It was initially quite frustrating for the Newcomer. Try as she might, every blow she had aimed at the Master he had evaded with ridiculous ease. Either literally bending backward, to avoid a lateral strike to his neck. Or, pulling in his stomach, as he _leaped_ backward, to avoid being gashed across his midriff.

"Oh, I don't know when I've had such a better dance partner!" he taunted her: "But, now, I think I should take the lead."

If she had blinked like a human, she would have missed it. Suddenly, the Master was behind her! Having run around counter-clockwise in a veritable blur! And worse, still? He had pushed her down on the ground. Pinning her there; fangs bared. . .and ready to suck.

He was interrupted, however, before he could even pierce her skin. Interrupted by a noose made of razor-sharp piano wire, dangling from a ten foot-long wooden pole!

"Hurry. . .up!" shouted the owner of that pole: "Before. . .he breaks. . .loose!"

The Master was momentarily stunned by the familiarity of that voice.

"An. . .gel. . .us-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s?!"

Vanessa Helsing was even more startled than the Master by this fortuitous intervention. Although, not to the extent that she was going to forego taking advantage of the opportunity. She sprang back on to her feet, and ran up to the Master. Deliberately putting herself nose to nose with him.

{ "I hope you dance as well with Tagdot Kooriha'ya." }

The Master, of course, failed to understand one syllable amongst all her clicks and glottal stops. But, the gist of the message became all too clear. The clawed hands that were trying to loosen the noose, she chopped off at the wrist. A second later, she followed suit with his screaming head!

Naturally, the sudden emptying of the noose was like an opposing tug-of-war team letting go of the rope. Angel fell flat on his butt! To his credit, however, he used the momentum of the fall to keep going and somersault backward into a crouch. One that allowed him to easily stand back up and dust himself off.

"I'm Angel, by the way. And, you're welcome."

Vanessa Helsing considered him for a minute. Then, she smiled. Offering her free right hand for shaking.

"I'm Leeloo Songjet. . .the Vampire Slayer. And, thank you."

**SUNNYDALE HIGH SCHOOL,  
(THE VERY NEXT DAY)**

Everyone who had been part in the previous night's "escapade" (as Lennox had facetiously dubbed it) met in the school library. There, introductions were made under the supervision of the head librarian, Rupert Giles.

"Contrary to popular mythology," explained the expatriate Englishman: ". . .our world did not begin as a paradise. It was once the personal playground of unfathomable beings known as the Old Ones. When they lost their purchase on this reality, however, they left behind certain vestiges. Certain magicks; certain creatures. Vampires, among them."

"For thousand years of since, their kind has been battled by the Slayer. A special girl- -one born in each generation- -with the strength, speed, and stamina to vanquish these creatures. Unfortunately, there has been an unprecedented break-down in this chain of succession. Hence, the recruitment of Miss Songjet. . .who will be working here, at the school, as the administrative assistant to Principal Flutie."

* * * * *

"Please, Mr. Giles!" exclaimed Alison: "It's Ms. Wonderland for the duration of my employment, here. And, 'Vanessa Helsing when I'm on patrol, at night."

"No offense," replied Xander: "But, while I can understand why a vampire hunter might need a secret identity, don't you think the vamps already living here will tumble to it if. . .?"

"Is it alright if I faint, now?" Willow interrupted.

"Breathe, Wills."

"Breathe?"

"Breathe! Now, where was I?"

Alison smiled: "You were about to tell me how the local vampires will eventually discover Van and I are one and the same. Since, thus far, I'm the first-and-only Newcomer in Sunnydale!"

Xander pointed to his nose: "Bingo!"

"Not to worry. Even as we speak, the Initiative is secretly arranging with the BNA to have a small group of pre-Celinist Newcomers move here.* "

"Pre-Celinist?" echoed Giles.

Alison nodded: "Celine and Andarko are the Founding Mother and Father of my people. A sort of deified Adam and Eve. But, some Tenctonese still worship a much-older creator goddess called 'Ionia.' Chief among them are the Eeno caste. They were the slaves of lowest rank aboard the Gruza. Always given the worst of jobs by the Kleetzantsun. And, always shamefully treated by most of the. . .other slaves."

She lowered her head in guilty embarrassment. Prompting Giles to take off his glasses and nervously polish them.

"Ah! Yes, well, uhm; I would guess that you now have to go join Sergeant Finn and his men for debriefing at that base you're setting up at UC-Sunnydale."

Alison nodded again: "We're modifying a series of old fall-out shelters left over from the early days of the Cold War. And, whenver you need me, you can reach me there through Sergeant Finn! As he'll officially be a member of the campus ROTC unit."

"Splendid!" exclaimed Giles: "With this pooling of resources, I have no doubt we can make life less hazardous for the diurnal residents of Sunnydale."

"We could help, too," offered Xander: "Wills is a whiz at web-surfing!"

Willow blushed at her old friend's high praise.

"I would be most appreciative of that," replied Giles: "Because, computers are to me what crosses are to vampires; extremely repellent!"

**tbc  
**  
***BNA: Bureau of Newcomer Affairs**_. The Federal agency set up to help the Tenctonese integrate into Earthling society._

**Kleetzatsun:** _the Tenctonese word for "overseer." The wrists of their right arms were usually tattooed with a substance immunizing them to the jabrokah gas._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4.  
**

**SOMEWHERE BETWEEN LOS ANGELES AND SUNNYDALE  
(JUNE 23, 1999)  
**  
It had been an eventful two years. But, not always pleasant.

For starters; while preventing the Harvest had definitely been a good thing, it had nonetheless resulted in a gang war for succession. A gang war between the Master's remaining loyalists. . .and a group of anarchs led by Angel's own childer; Spike and Drusilla. The fighting got so bad, Angel had seen no other way to stop it (before innocent by-standers started getting killed) than to allow Riley Finn's recondos to capture Spike for neuro-surgical implantation of a behavior-modifying microchip!

Then, there had been the relatively small street gang possessed by African hyena spirits. While Alison had narrowly averted Prinicpal Flutie's death at their hands (and jaws), she had failed to keep Xander from being seduced into their ranks. Nor had she and Giles been able to exorcise them before Xander had escaped into the local sewer system. The hyena spirit still controlling him.

It was down there that he eventually crossed paths with Drusilla; becoming her ally of convenience (among other things). And, it had therefore broken both Angel's heart and Willow's when those two had had to be sacrificed to shut Acathla's big mouth!

Fortunately, for Willow, Jesse McNally was still alive to console her. Yet, Angel had no such luxury! At least; not under the terms of his re-ensoulment curse. He had said as much to Cordelia Chase, after she had tried to prove just how grateful she really was to be rescued by him from a pair of Dr. Frankenstein "wanna-be's."

One display of his _"game face"_ (as Xander had been the first to dub it) was all it took to permanently discourage Cordelia from ever seeking his affections, again.

The proverbial last straw had come this past month, when Mayor Wilkins had turned himself into a giant snake-demon during graduation ceremonies at Sunnydale High. Only to be destroyed by mystical lightning from something called the Glove of Myneghon, worn by Wilkins' latest political rival; Ted Buchanan!

Jenny Calendar had been a good person. A self-professed "techno-pagan" who had worked at Sunnydale as a computer science teacher. Yet, in spite of her love for cybernetics, she had still managed to pique a romantic interest in the bookwormish Giles. He had proven too shy for his own good, however, and lost her to the much more out-going "telemarketer." Especially, after she began helping him to campaign for mayor opposite the incumbent Wilkins! It was when she had discovered "Ted's" true origin, however, and had threatened to _'out'_ him to the press if he did not withdraw from the mayoral race voluntarily, that he had snapped her neck.

And, it was in the aftermath of that decisive battle that Whistler reappeared to Angel (who was hiding out in the sewers now that Wilkins' mystically induced eclipse had faded away).

"You did good, here, Angel-baby. Real good! But, now, it's time to move back home."

Angel shook his head: "I beg your pardon?"

"You're needed back in L.A. Somethin' really big is startin' to stir, there! And, it's got the PTB's a little anxious."

"But, what about my work here?"

"All finished! You helped everybody over the roughest spots. Now, the rest is up to them. If it helps you to know? Acting Mayor Finch will recruit your buddy, Giles, as _his_ deputy mayor! Cordelia heads for Hollywood and becomes a big movie star. And Jesse and Willow become engaged the moment they graduate from college. . .out of state!"

Angel half-smiled with relief: "So, what's my _new_ job going to entail?"

"I'll tell you when you get there."

* * * * *

At that same moment, in Beverly Hills, nightclub owner Esteban Reyes was being introduced to the new magic act that would head-line in his main room.

"Senor Reyes?" the Newcomer with the false goatee rhetorically asked: "I'm Duncan Shane. And this is my lovely assistant, Sylvia."

"My friends call me '_Syl_,' for short," the statuesque blonde added.

Reyes ogled her from head to foot, and back again, with complete shamelessness.

"Could I be one of those friends?" he asked her with a slightly exaggerated pseudo-Cuban accent.

Syl reached toward the left cheek of his face, as if to caress it with her right hand. Only for a playing card to appear in it at the last second!

"Does this give you a hint?" she replied (with delightful coyness), as she showed him the Two of Hearts.

* * * * *

**UCLA MEDICAL CENTER  
(JULY 4, 1999)  
**  
Dr. Warren Michaels clicked on his digital audio recorder and began to speak.

"As happened last year, around this same time, Patient Summers has regained some lucidity. Prior to that, she has frequently ranted and raved about the Master and certain other. . .malevolent entities. . .trying to end the world from Sunnydale, California. A place she has obviously never been to and, yet, has given uncannily accurate descriptions of! This raises the question: is her condition making her subconsciously sensitive to the goings-on in a parallel universe?"

"I'll contact the Council, tomorrow, and see if they have any records, or have done any research, about similar psychic links."

* * * * *

**ANGEL INVESTIGATIONS  
(AUGUST 1, 1999)  
**  
"Yes, Miss?" said the thin, dark-haired man (in an undeniably Irish brogue): "What I can do for ya?"

"Is this the place that was advertising for an administrative assistant?" asked the young girl with shoulder-length, wavy black hair.

"That it is. I'm Allen Doyle. And, this here is m' partner. . ."

"Just call me 'Angel,' " said Angel: "And, you are. . .?"

"Jill. Jill Molaskey."

The disparate trio shook hands with each other.

"So, what do you want to know about me?" Jill asked.

Angel smiled (which Doyle privately regarded as a minor miracle).

"Well, your resume pretty much speaks for itself. Between that and the fact you were the _only_ person to answer our ad, I'd say you're pretty much hired!"

"Really?" Jill exclaimed, just barely restraining herself from outright squealing in glee.

Angel nodded, adding: "The pay will initially be a little unpredictable. And the precise nature of our investigations will be. . .somewhat unconventional."

Jill could not resist grinning: "My mom and I used to live across the street from a Newcomer police detective. I'm pretty much used to unconventional!"

Angel looked at Doyle before looking back at her and replying: "We'll see about that."

* * * * *

**KING O' CLUBS,**

**BEVERLY HILLS, CAL.**

**(SEPT. 24, 1999)**

Duncan Shane beamed at the audience as he locked Sylvia into a red-and-black box sitting atop a table with a glass surface. Upon showing off all sides to the night club's audience, he smiled at them and said:

"Behold! The debut of the illusion I call. . .'Chainsawing In Thirds!' "

Whereupon, he pulled on the start cord of a gasoline-powered chainsaw he had bought in a hardware store that very afternoon. And, even over the din of it, his Tenctonese ear holes could pick up the nervous "ooh's" and "ah's" from the audience as he worked the blade of the chainsaw through the section where his assistant's neck should be. Followed by the section where her waist should be!

While all that was going on, Esteban Reyes was in his sound-proofed private office, working on the accounts.

"Hola, Estevanico."

Reyes looked up with a start. Only one person had ever called him that. . .and she was dead.

"Hey!" he exclaimed when he saw who it was: "Who let you in here? And, how'd you learn that nickname?"

Meanwhile, back on stage, Duncan Shane was about to freak out the audience.

"BEHOLD!"

He picked up all three sections of the box, en masse. Then, he dropped them to the floor of the stage! This naturally prompted a few of the women in the audience to scream in pure reflex. Just before noticing that nothing was inside any of them! Then, the house lights went off for a moment, so that a spotlight could shine. . .

. . .on Sylvia. Standing at the doors to the kitchen, in her semi-tuxedo and tails, perfectly unharmed.

The audience stood and applauded. So loudly, that only the kitchen staff initially heard the scream.

"Someone call the police! Mr. Reyes has been murdered!"

**tbc**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5.  
**

Matt Sykes arrived on the scene before his partner.

"Hey, Bea! What've we got, here?"

Detective Beatrice Zapeda did not even bother with greeting him back.

"You are looking at the late, unlamented Esteban Reyes. Formerly, a pimp in East L. A. Now, a corpse in Beverly Hills."

"Cause of death?"

"The coroner's preliminary guess is that someone made him eat a gun. As the hole in the back of Reyes' head is an exit wound! The thing is, this office was locked from the inside. Dead bolts; remote-controlled from Reyes' desk. So, even if Reyes knew his killer and let him in, voluntarily, how did the killer re-lock everything after leaving?"

Sykes shrugged: "An easier question to answer would be; _'Are there any suspects that immediately spring to mind?_' "

"How about Russell Winters?" suggested a new voice.

Sykes spun about and groaned. It was Jeff Burns; a paparazzo who preferred to think of himself as a "free-lance investigative reporter." And who preferred to call himself "_Third Degree_" Burns, as he always proclaimed he made it "_hot_" for whomever he interviewed as the subject of one of his exposes.

"What the frig are you talking about? And, how the frig did you get past the yellow tape?"

"I'm talking about the guy rumored to be the chief money launderer for _'Big Bad Cyrus'_ Prince!" exclaimed Burns: "Word on the street is, Winters has been trying to buy this place from Reyes for some time. But, Reyes has been saying '_no_,' as he's not really the owner. Just a glorified front man!"

"Oh, really, Burns? And, just who was he fronting for?"

"I don't know. . .yet."

"Well, when you do, just let George know. Okay?"

"Where is your partner, anyway?"

"Right behind you," said George: "And I noticed you failed to answer Matthew' second question. Namely; your circumvention of the crime scene tape. So, allow me to personally _'escort'_ you back behind it!"

"Hey! Hands off, Francisco! The people have a right to know!"

"Maybe so," Sykes sarcastically shouted after him: "But, the real question is; how many of your so-called readers _want_ to know?"

* * * * *

When George returned a minute later, Sykes thanked him profusely.

"Another second and I might have done something I'll _never_ regret!"

"I, too, deplore his lack of journalistic ethics, Matthew. But, the fact remains, he may have a point."

"So does a dunce cap! Which is exactly what he should be wearing instead of that moth-eaten old fedora."

"I'm being serious. If Russell Winters really is trying to purchase this establishment, we should go interview him. If only to eliminate him as a suspect!"

"Fine, fine! Where does he live?"

* * * * *

**BEL AIR, CALIFORNIA  
(MIDNIGHT)**

"Wow! I've never seen anyplace else so glamorous, Mr. Winters. And, I watched every single episode of LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH & FAMOUS as a kid!"

"Thank you, Ms. Chase," replied Russell Winters (with all the sincere modesty he could fake).

"Please! It's Cordelia."

"And, you must call me 'Russell!' Mr. Winters was my father."

The May/December couple laughed and went up the front steps to the main entrance to the mansion.

* * * * *

Yet, just as Winters was about to press on the doorbell, a far different sound suddenly rang out. The sound of gunfire. . .followed by a blood-curdling scream. Then, the door flew open.

"Stacy!" exclaimed the horrified multi-millionaire.

"Run!" said the bearded bodyguard, in an almost-inaudible whisper (his faced smeared with blood).

No sooner had he uttered that command, however, than Stacy was dragged back inside. Only to be replaced by another figure with a far more frightening face. Not to mention, a long trench coat and a spiked, peroxide-blond crew cut.

"Hello, 'ello, 'ello! Who do we have, here?"

Cordelia gasped in recognition: "Spike?!"

"Ah! The lovely prom queen from Sunnydale. So glad you remember me, love. But, don't worry; I ain't here for you. Just him!"

Whereupon, wooden stakes came springing out of each long sleeve of the trench coat. Stakes that the Cockney vampire immediately tried to thrust into Winters' heart! Unfortunately, for Spike, the latter was surprisingly quick to side-step out of the way. . .

. . .and, then, retaliate in kind.

"Surprise!" he yelled (putting on his own "game face").

He then grabbed the wooden stake from Spike's left hand. Spike, however, was quick to arc his remaining stake forward with his right hand. Winters intercepted it with his free left hand, and the reverse proved equally true for Spike! And, so, the two vampires remained for the next ten minutes. Each one of them completely and physically deadlocked, as if involved with some obscene version of an arm-wrestling match. That deadlock was finally broken by the sound of an approaching police siren. Which, in turn, distracted Russell just enough that he instinctively looked to his left. Thereby allowing Spike to knee him in the groin!

"Catch you later, mate."

Whereupon, Spike ran headlong towards the ever-approaching police car. Ultimately jumping right over it, as it simultaneously squealed on its brakes!

George and Sykes sprang out of the car as fast as possible, guns drawn. But, it was too late. Spike was already out of range and out of sight. And, Angel (watching from his perch atop the front wall of this mansion) could only glare in helpless rage.

"How the frig did he get away from the Initiative?" he muttered to himself.

**tbc**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6.  
**

**ONE PARKER PLACE  
(SEPT. 25, 1999)  
**  
The two police detectives had immediately called for back-up. Plus, an ambulance or two for the critically wounded survivors among the security staff. Winters, himself, was surprisingly unharmed. His date, however, had assumed a fetal position on the lawn to the left of Winter's front door. Rocking back and forth while chanting something about no normal men left in the world.

At the same time those units arrived, Winters' attorney showed up, too.

"I'm Lindsey McDonald of Wolfram and Hart. What happened here, detectives?"

"We are still trying to ascertain that, sir," replied George.

"You see," added Sykes: "one of his business associates just bought the farm, earlier tonight. A guy named Reyes? And, we wanted to ask your client if he has any enemies that ruthless?"

"My client will be glad to answer any and all questions, Detective! But, first thing tomorrow at Police Headquarters. Right now, I think he wants to run this young lady to the hospital."

"He may accompany her to the hospital in the other ambulance," said George: "As for the questioning? Very well! We will expect you and Mr. Winters at Headquarters, promptly, at 10:00 AM."

The next morning, Capt. Bryon Grazer called the two detectives into his office.

"I think the three of us can agree that Reyes' killing and the attempt on Winters' life are connected. Now, the only reason that you two were allowed to visit the Beverly Hills crime scene is because there was a Newcomer magician performing there, last night! So, Francisco? I'll be sending you to question him alongside a BHPD detective. While her partner will be working with you and Zapeda, Sykes, to question Winters and any other persons of interest. Any questions, so far?"

"Yes, sir," replied Sykes: "What are their names? Assuming you have them handy, sir."

As usual, Sykes' deferential tone was laced with a bit of facetiousness at the captain's expense. A trace remnant of the fact that George had been promoted to sergeant ahead of Sykes (despite the latter's chronological seniority)! Yet, while there had been some initial resentment of George, himself, over that, Sykes had quickly realized it had actually been Grazer's way of paying him back for earlier thinly-veiled insults (which Sykes considered well-deserved).

Ergo, the insults were now rarer and much subtler. But, twice as barbed, in proportion!

"Why don't I let them introduce themselves," said Grazer.

"How y'all doin', Matt?"

Sykes sprang to his feet with a smile.

"Freddy! How're you doing, dude?"

Detective Sergeant Frederick W. Dobbs smiled back: "Same old same-old! How about yourselves?"

"We cannot complain, Frederick," said George, as all three shook hands: "It seems like only yesterday that you were transferred to BPHD."

"Well, uh, what can I say? It's a semi-cushy job. But, somebody's got to do it!"

There was a polite cough, and Dobbs turned around.

"Oops!" exclaimed the African-American detective: "Where _are_ my manners? Matt Sykes; George Francisco? Meet my partner. . .Detective Kate Lockley."

The short-haired, blue-eyed blonde smiled, stepped forward, and shook the proffered hands.

* * * * *

**ANGEL INVESTIGATIONS**

**(9:45 A.M./PDT)**

"I met up Guillermo just before sunrise," said Angel: "He said the exit wound was _not_ the result of a gun being forced into Reyes' mouth and fired at point blank range! No trace of any GSR.* "

"What was it that killed him then?" asked Doyle.

"He said the coroner half-joked about a giant oyster drill."

"A what?!"

So, Angel explained how that was the name of a species of sea snail that used a razor-sharp tongue (called a "radula") to literally drill through an oyster's otherwise tough shell in order to get at the edible flesh inside.

"That's very interestin'," replied Doyle: "But, the last time I looked, there were no such things as giant oysters on dry land!"

"True! Yet, we do know one species of _demon_ that has such a tongue."

Doyle arched his eyebrows: "The Skilosh?"

Angel nodded, again: "I don't know how Reyes' death is connected to Spike trying to kill Winters. But, the Order of Teraka uses all kinds. And, Spike is just the kind of insane thrill-seeker to work for them himself!"

Suddenly, Angel's cell phone began to vibrate in his right rear pocket. He answered it.

"Yes, Jill?"

"Call for you on Line 1 of the regular office phone. It's from Sunnydale."

"I'll be right up!"

He took the stairs up, from his basement "suite," two at a time. And, when he got to Jill's desk, he turned off the blinking red "hold" button.

"Riley? It's Angel. What's Spike doing in L. A.?"

**ONE PARKER PLACE**

**(9:55 A.M./PDT)**

Meanwhile, Russell was about to finish his own cell phone conversation with Cyrus; the Brujah Prince of Los Angeles.

"So, what do you want me to do about Harcourt?"

"Nothing. If he wants a war, with me, then I'll give him one. Personally! As for the cops? Let your mouth-piece do the talkin'. You just play 'dumb' as best you can."

Winters agreed. Then, he deactivated the cell phone and went inside Police HQ in order to be punctual.

*GSR: gunshot residue

**tbc**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7.**

"What's Spike doing in L.A. ?" Angel harshly demanded over the phone.

"He got busted out of here last night!" exclaimed Riley Finn replied: "By four anarchs named Billy Fordham, Andrew Wells, Warren Mears, and Jonathan Levinson. Those names mean anything to you?"

"No. Why should they?"

"Because, up until last night, they were just four out of the dozens pf photos posted on the Wall of the Missing."

Shortly before Angel had left Sunnydale, a prefabricated stone wall had been erected and covered with Velcro. So that it could be decorated with photographic likenesses of all those presumably killed in the "natural gas explosion" that destroyed Sunnydale High. But, whose bodies had yet to be recovered.

"Are you trying to tell me that these four got vampirized during the Battle of Graduation Day? And, then, spent two months in hiding, plotting Spike's break-out?"

"Can you think of a better reason for their suddenly showing up last night?" countered Riley: "Wielding a hand-held remote control device that can apparently _over-ride_ the programming of an HST microchip?"

"Oh, crap!" muttered Angel.

"Exactly. Initiative HQ has made their capture Priority Number One. And, that's why Dart One is en route to L.A., even as we speak.

At that exact same moment, Russell Winters (suitably covered with sun block) sat in his chair while Lindsey McDonald whispered in his ear.

"I was interested in buying the King O'Clubs as a new business venture," he then recited: "Diversification, as we call it, in high finance."

"That's very good, Mr. Winters," replied Sykes: "Can you say that, again, while your lawyer is drinking a glass of water?"

"With all due respect, Detective?" countered the businessman: "If you seriously believe I had anything to do with Reyes' death, then you're the dummy, here. Not me!"

Sykes looked at McDonald: "It might be smart of you to remind your client that verbal abuse of a cop is a highly citable offense."

"And, verbally abusing my client is a potentially litigious one!" replied the lawyer: "So, why don't you let your cooler-headed partner ask the questions from here on out?"

"Okay,then," said Dobbs: "Tell us, Mr. Winters. Where were you at the time of Reyes' death?"

"Out of the country, on some time-sensitive negotiations."

"Negotiations with whom, and concerning what?"

"The purchase of a certain champion racehorse, for breeding purposes, from a certain oil sheik in Dubai."

"And, would this oil sheik be able to confirm your story?"

"I could speed-dial him on my cell phone, right now, if you want. That is; if you don't mind him being grumpy about it. Seeing as it's the middle of the night there!"

The questions and answers went back and forth like that for five more minutes. Yet, it quickly became obvious that Winters was not going to co-operate anymore than he already had. So, reluctantly, Sykes and Dobbs told him and McDonald that they were free to go.

"Don't plan on making any other business trips out of the country, though," Sykes admonished: "We'll definitely have more questions for you. Real soon!"

Meanwhile, George Francisco and Kate Lockley were down in the morgue, talking to medical examiner Dr. Lois Allen.

"There was no gunshot residue on the mouth. So I can most definitely rule that out as the cause of death. As to what really did kill him? I found some strange DNA traces around the exit wound. One of my assistants (a Discovery Channel buff) made a half-joke about the radula of a giant oyster drill. So, just to shut him up, I sent a few samples over to Dr. Frankel at the UCLA Medical Center."

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed George: "I know Dr. Frankel very well. What did she say? Or, is she still analyzing those samples?"

"Actually, I just got the preliminary results back, from her, five minutes ago. And, the DNA is definitely _not_ from any gastropod on land or sea. In fact, it's more typical of a land-based mammal! What kind of mammal, however, is still a mystery to her. So, she's going to have even further genetic testing done."

"As that's going to take some time," observed Kate: "Why don't we go talk to Duncan Shane over at the King O'Clubs? Maybe he can tell us how Reyes' killer got into (and out of) a locked room, without anyone else seeing or hearing anything."

"An excellent suggestion," replied George: "With any luck, we might even get to see him rehearsing one of his slightly under-handed tricks!"

"I think you mean _'sleight-of-hand_,' " Kate corrected.

"Precisely!" beamed George (rubbing his hands together in child-like anticipatory glee).

Meanwhile, over at Angel Investigations, Doyle and Jill had begun having autobiographical small talk while waiting for Angel to get off the phone. Doyle was trying to figure out how to edit any conversations about his father when, suddenly, he clutched at the temples of his forehead in agony!

He was having another precognitive vision.

"When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,

He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.

But, his mate makes no such motion where she waits beside the trail.

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male."

"What the frig was that?!" exclaimed the half-naked male Newcomer, looking up.

"An excerpt from a poem written in 1911 by an Earthman named Rudyard Kipling."

"Seriously? That's my boss' name!"

"I know. That's the real reason I invited you back here, last night. I want you to give him a message for me."

"I knew it was too good to be true," the Newcomer groaned: "What's the message?"

" _'Open wide_.' "

"O. . .?"

He did not live long enough to echo the complete message in puzzlement.

"Doyle?" Angel shouted, having just returned from the office: "Doyle! What's wrong?"

"There's a Tenctonese, named Warren Peace, at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. His life's in danger. We've got to get to him. Now!"

A minute later, Angel's convertible was speeding in the direction of the Miracle Mile. With Doyle at the wheel. . .and Angel in the trunk.

**tbc**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8.**

**BEVERLY WILSHIRE HOTEL,**

**WILSHIRE BOULEVARD,**

**BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA**

**SEPTEMBER. 25, 1999**

**(10:00 A.M./PST)**

The urgency in Doyle's voice, upon describing his vision, had convinced Angel that time was of the essence. So, he had not stopped to coat his face and hands with industrial-strength sunblock. Instead, he had hopped into the trunk of his convertible in order to avoid the brunt of the sunlight outside. There was no way, however, to avoid being tossed back and forth with all the other stuff he stored in there every time Doyle made a high-speed turn!

Indeed, that Doyle did not get pulled over by any police cars could only be ascribed to one of two things: either visions from the PTB's on where all the speed traps were; or an out-and-out miracle. But, whatever the reason, the fact remains that the car soon pulled into the underground parking garage of the hotel. Whereupon, Doyle jumped out of the car and unlocked the trunk.

"Room 617!" he shouted: "Ya have to hurry!"

"I'm on it!" Angel shouted back as he ran for the stairwell.

Though nowhere near as fast as a Celerity Demon, an average vampire was still three times faster than an ordinary mortal, at the very least. And, Angel was most definitely an above average vampire! As a result, he made it up to the sixth floor of the hotel in less than five minutes. Upon finding Room 617, a couple moments later, he did not hesitate to kick it open with his right foot. His "game face" already on.

Now, most vampires cannot enter any private residence (including personal apartments) without being verbally invited. But, as hotel rooms are publicly accessible (for the most part), Angel should have had no trouble crossing the threshold. The only reason he did not do so, at that very second, was due to what he saw before him.

The form was more or less humanoid. Indeed, Angel's first thought was it resembled a reanimated human skeleton that had been coated in molten bronze halfway through decomposition! Yet, the eyes that looked at him were lidless. Almost insectoid, in fact; except that they were not multi-faceted and/or dome-shaped (like those typical of, say, a housefly).

In short; Angel could not honestly recall meeting anything more nightmarish-looking during his nearly three hundred years as a vampire. And, that moment of stunned inaction was going to cost him!

Before Angel could sufficiently recover, to take one step forward, the thing on the hotel room bed had already leaped upward to the ceiling. It clung there, for a moment, in the same upside-down position as a South American tree sloth. Then, it sprang downward, landing just in front of Angel. . .

. . .and lashing its radula outward, directly at him.

Angel ducked at the last second. Just barely managing to avoid being impaled right through his mouth! And, that, in turn, allowed the thing to jump over him like a kangaroo with a hot-foot. Angel, however, had finally gotten over his shock and was now in hot pursuit.

They ran down the hallway. The strange-looking demon running on the left-hand wall with complete ease. And, Angel growling in frustration each time it evaded each lunging attempt of his to lay hands on it.

Finally, they reached the stairwell door at the opposite end of the sixth floor hallway. The creature (whatever it was) went through it without the slightest deceleration in its leap-frogging. Angel burst through the door a second or two later; almost completely knocking it off its hinges! And, from the screams that wafted upward, there was obviously more than person on the stairway. But, it was a mixed blessing that they were still alive when Angel passed them. Because, in his haste to capture this elusive man-killer, he had forgotten about his "game-face!" Consequently, the two bikini-clad guests he passed on the way down also screamed at him.

Finally, they reached the basement.

The creature sprang through a pair of white double doors with vertically rectangular windows. Angel continued after it, without the slightest hesitation. Immediately recognizing the hotel laundry, where bed sheets, table cloths, and so forth were either washed-and-dried , or steam-cleaned, for renewed guest usage the next day. And, the clouds of steam from the latter process were providing annoying camouflage for his quarry.

By this point, of course, Angel had resumed his more humanistic features. Thus, when he heard blood-curdling screams of terror, this time, he knew _he_ was not the source of them!

He ran in the direction they had seemed to come from. And, this time, he did find more casualties. Three female launderers, in fact. Each one looking like they had been whipped across her face by a cat o' nine tails! But, in silencing these poor women, the creature had made a mistake. It had drawn human blood.

A scent that Angel knew all-too well how to follow.

He followed it into the hotel's massive circulator room, where the furnaces and water heaters were kept. Here, he became even more cautious. Because, the fumes from all the heating oil were over-powering the blood scent. And, the din from the ventilation circulators were drowning out all potential foot-falls he might otherwise have heard. But, he could still feel currents of displaced air against his face.

And, it was one such air current that warned him to duck under the manhole cover that might otherwise have decapitated him!

Angel knew what had happened even before he found the evidence. The creature had used its immense strength to pry open the manhole cover. . .and fling it like a Frisbee in Angel's direction. The gaping hole in the ground now gave clear indication in which direction it had fled; downward. Into the sewer system.

"It's like I never left Sunnydale!" he complained to himself, sotto voce. Before entering the hole, as well.

**tbc**


End file.
